Gyoukan
by Kaitourei
Summary: Why must we control, create, and devastate what isn’t real? Answer: Because we really aren’t there and they really aren’t here. Imagination can’t hurt a thing, right? [Psychological view into the concept of “fanfiction”. Told through self-inse


This is a "side fic" to the complete fic **Under the Wraps** – it mainly focuses on an unrealistic idea: _What if the characters we read and watch have a will of their own? What if we obstruct that during our fanfiction rituals?_

Terms:

*Ayatsuri – puppet

*Kame – turtle, tortoise 

*Pai Pai – female breasts

*Hentai – pervert

*Aibou – other, partner

*Mou hitori no Yuugi – the other Yuggi

*Yuugi-tachi – Yuugi and co. 

*Bishounen – pretty boy

*Zoku-ou Bakura – King Thief Bakura (from the manga)

*Shubi – beginning and end

Gyoukan 

By Kaitourei

I like coming here. Just for visits though, stay too long, and I get depressed.  One, because I'm not really here and, two, because they really aren't there - because this is subreality and there's not reality in that. A bitch, isn't it?

They call me an Authoress. Not _the_ authoress, _an_ authoress. There are more of us. Many. They all come here, all of them – some just aren't as nice as others. I don't know how nice I've been. I've already committed first-degree murder about eight times, if not more. 

I don't use my hands though. We never do. We use an *ayatsuri – a puppet. Everything here is a puppet to us, from the people to the sky, to the buildings, to the wildlife. We are gods of this realm, and the characters do as we bit – nothing more, nothing less. 

I'm in frount of the *Kame Game Shop. It's always the same, the animal's big eyes staring eerily down at me. It must recognize me as other of _them_. Things here may be under our control but some are still hostile because of something our alleged god gave us: free will. 

I find the only difference between subreality and reality is the control of this supposed "free will". We can control their actions and cloud their minds with our thoughts and lusts, but there is a small spark of thought left within them. They kindle it, like a mother to her child's last innocence. 

It drives them.

I know Yuugi is in bed. It's a predetermined thing, no surprises here. I slip through the door and into the darkened shop, a spectral image ghastly swooping through solid matter. Did I mention the laws of physics don't apply here too?

The stairs are in the back of the shop, behind the counter and rows of games lead to the bedrooms. Both occupants are in their own kingdoms now. I can only hope it is more pleasant than their "reality".  

I peak through the door almost timidly, as if they might wake and see me. Who knows, they might. I'm here on visiting terms, not for another fic. That means I'm susceptible to them physically until evoke what is commonly known as "author or authoress power". 

The grandfather, Sugoroku Mutou, lies on his bed snoring loudly. He's flopped squarely on the mattress, his face against his pillow. His features are constantly changing expression, happy to sad, disappointment to excitement. I can barely hear him whisper, '*Pai Pai.' 

I scowl. _Hentai_.

Yuugi, as I presumed, is also asleep in his room. Contrary to his grandfather, he is much quieter. (And, to which, I'm very thankful.) Soft golden bangs fall onto his large closed eyelids. The dimness of the light exaggerates the color of his unusual hair. It shines like glossed bullion and burgundy. 

How odd, I think, that it would be this outwardly insignificant boy who holds the hopes of his world. Life is ironic, whether it be real or not. That is what most authors and authoresses forget. They forget to add the realism to their fiction - even if it is an alternate universe based story - there has to that ironic, karmic twist. A paradox… 

I grin, suddenly wanting to reach out and stroke the array of color before me.  As my hand reached forward I sense a presence in the room. Someone else has entered and I stop.

'I suggest you keep you hands of my *aibou, _authoress_,' says a deadly calm voice. *Mou hitori no Yuugi, or otherwise known as "Yami", has made his appearance. 

He looks like Yuugi, exactly like him. Well, maybe except the see-through part like most yamis. I continue to grin, 'Good to see you, too.'

'No tricks, authoress,' he looks at me warily through slivered crimson eyes. 'I know your kind. I've done what you bid and so has *Yuugi-tachi. What now do you want?'

'Nothing. No tricks, though I can't say I won' be back,' I don't mean it mockingly, but maybe it comes out wrong. I have that effect on people – and spirits in this case. His expression goes sour and within a second of my comment the room is illuminated with light. Then, I decide it would be a good time for my exit. 

The window is tempting and I rush for it. I'm through the glass and flying. The street hurdles toward me, or visa versa. I make it, landing on a soft fluffy bunch of… cotton candy? 

I groan and pull my self out of the glutinous mess and claw at the remaining particles in my hair. Damn trash fiction leftovers; some people should learn to pick up after themselves. 

Outside I visit the others: Honda, Otogi, Anzu, Bakura…

But I can't really see them. They're there in their rooms but I can't see the rooms, I can't see the wallpaper or the books on the shelves. I images shift before my eyes, all parts of dull realities create by other authors to fit the purpose. What is never revealed to us in the real world through television or paper is never really known in subreality. Like lost pieces of a puzzle, they stay blank and are filled with what we assume would be fitting. But they never really fit in the blank spot perfectly. 

Ryou Bakura's room was indeed the most interesting. He was situated in an apartment, a very small apartment. Along the walls were dolls; their eyes never left me once I had entered. They were real people, I knew this, real people _inside_ the dolls. I pitied them for an existence as playthings, but I could not release them without creating a disruption the subreality.

I promised myself I wouldn't. Not this time. I left without seeing Bakura or Yami no Bakura – although I knew two brown eyes watched me make my exit. He deserved to be alone one night. Tomorrow, there'd be another hoard of screaming fangirls to run from. 

I shook my head. Rest up, little *bishounen.

I know where I'm going next, in two words: Katsuya Jounouchi. (Preferable, _Katsuya_. I like that name better. Although to call him that directly would be an insult. Yes, another Japanese custom authors forget – though I prefer to invoke it. )

Now I believe there have been misconceptions about this blonde teen. First off, he isn't from Brooklyn, hence, _no_ mutilated accent; second, his dad is _only_ known to be alcoholic. In all fairness, the authors make him abusive. One can only ponder the woes of the man _forced_ to abuse his son. 

Katsuya is a sleep as I slip through his bedroom wall. His room is a blurred mess of imaged that flash before me in a miscellaneous order. Slowly I approach the theoretical bed. He's tangled within the covers – I cannot make out the colors of the blankets, the to are random.

His face away from me. I peek over the twisting bedcovers at Katsuya's face. His eyes are closed and a goofy look plays upon his face. I smile back, unbeknownst. At least someone seems happy I'm here. I grimace inwardly. Little does he know what tomorrow holds. Little does he know what we have in store for him.

Katsuya Jounouchi, sidekick to Yuugi Mutou, underdog duelist on a winning streak - lucky man of the moment. Who knows, tomorrow he might be dead or worse. And here in subreality there _are_ worst.

I don't want to stay here anymore. The scene is depressing; the happy expression on Katsuya's face makes me suddenly ill in the stomach. I make a face and scramble through the window.

I drag myself along a quiet street, my sneakers brush against the neatly trimmed hedges, steel gates, and white fences that the human imaginations have created in place of the unknown. 

I'm in frount of the Kaiba Mansion now. It's shifting also. But the characteristics are the same. I gaze at it, the oversized building. I feel out of place in a simple outfit and sneakers. Royalty could have a mansion this big.

My imagination takes hold and the shifting images stop. The grounds are silent. I've invoked the _power_. I shouldn't have, why make real what never was?

The grounds are boring. Plain. Kaiba would have liked it that way: less yard work, less chance for meddling servants and maids. At the frount door I stepped through. Literally. The walls around me were changing, morphing, and becoming what they "supposed to be". Doors, corridors, stairs, all appeared and disappeared in a haphazard order. I don't care much though, why make real what never was?

"Conveniently" I found the corridor Kaiba had led Yugi-tachi through. I wasn't changing. This made my search so much easier.

Kaiba was in his room, or what it was supposed to be. He was in a sitting position, his body formatted at if he were in a chair and I thought I saw a flash of one. Sometimes I wished I should see subreality the same way the characters that belonged there could. They didn't see the random disorganized world I did, they had their own. 

I peeked through the crack conveniently between the door, which was solid, and the wall, which was not. 

I sighed and watched Kaiba, his eyes, his body. Seto Kaiba is a paradox at some points in time; he is all I ever wanted to be and more. Kaiba is my favorite character, and I daresay I may "love" him - but love is complex and I don't know all there is to yet, if I ever will.

My love for Kaiba isn't that of sex or physical pleasure. I love his demeanor, his graceful yet powerful moves, and how he keeps himself defended from the world outside but has a heart hidden underneath the ice. My love boarders on worship, just another authors "love" Yuugi, Yami, Ryou, Yami no Bakura, or Katsuya Jounouchi. 

I groan and get up from my Kaiba watching. Such a self-defeating purpose, I can't change who I am, but I can change him. Make him something I want to be. My ayatsuri_,_ my thoughts, my lust… as is the essence of fanfiction.

I glance back into the room. He hasn't moved, but I'd rather not bother him. I watch from afar, because I remember two things about subreality: I'm not really here and they're not really there. That's the reality to it. 

Yes, reality is a bitch - a bitch with my phone number, address, email, and IM. 

There's not way of escaping that.

_~Shubi~ _

Disclaimer: 

Kazuki Takahashi owns the _real_ Yu-Gi-Oh, 4Kids just screws it up. Either way, I don't own a thing and I'd rather leave it that way.

Endnotes: 

This title means "between the lines" in Japanese, which I find appropriate for the whole composition. I'm still not sure what this composition is exactly. I just came to me while I was trying to type the next chap. of **Tumult**. Perhaps you could call it a side-fic to **Under the Warps**, for all the loyal fans. 

Well, should I continue or keep this at a one-shot? 

Review and decide.


End file.
